


dusk til dawn

by dogloser



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Angst and Feels, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Alternate Universe, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Everyone Needs A Hug, Five Stages of Grief, Fluff and Angst, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Robb Stark, Injured Robb Stark, Injury, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mentioned Catelyn Tully Stark, Near Death, POV Theon Greyjoy, Possible Character Death, Protective Theon Greyjoy, Robb Stark is King in the North, Robb Stark is a Gift, Stand Alone, Warg Robb Stark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-24 01:29:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30064596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogloser/pseuds/dogloser
Summary: What Theon hates most is that they were supposed to be safe.
Relationships: Theon Greyjoy/Robb Stark
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	dusk til dawn

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first published work for GoT so of course it's angst x) this first chapter can be read on its own as a complete work, but it's really just a prologue leading up to what i want to happen in ch2. enjoy <3  
> [my tumblr](http://doggoneloser.tumblr.com/)

Theon hates a lot of what’s happened in the past hour. He hates, and he hates viciously. Doing anything else would mean that he might give himself a chance to truly think about what happened, and that…  _ that…  _

What Theon hates most is that they were supposed to be safe.

Robb’s army has made camp in the Tully’s land. They’re far from Riverrun, and further yet from King’s Landing, but it’s crossed no one’s mind, the idea that they might never make it to King’s Landing. The Northern army, with King Robb leading them, feels as inevitable as winter. 

They’ve been camped for less than a week. The soldiers have settled in, and the commanders have done similarly. Robb spends day and night planning and strategizing with them. Theon is with him, most times, and if he’s not, he usually hears of it afterwards. 

Even though they are not  _ losing,  _ by any means, Theon’s easily seen the way it’s been wearing on Robb. The sweet summer child he knew a year ago is withering and dying, overshadowed by Robb Stark, lord of Winterfell and King in the North. And King Robb paces more than he sleeps, slouches over maps more than he eats.

It was why Theon was more than happy to have a night alone with Robb.

He’d been longing, for a while, to snatch Robb away. Ideally, Theon would steal him away to Dorne, or even Winterfell, anywhere that the burden of the soldier’s lives and bannermen’s judging eyes could be lifted from Robb’s shoulders for good.

Theon knows he can’t do that, though, not when Robb’s father is headless and his sisters are either held hostage or missing.

So he does the next best thing and steals Robb away from his damned tent.

Grey Wind, who lays loyally guarding the entrance, doesn’t so much as move when Theon approaches. Grey Wind  _ does  _ move when Theon drags Robb from the tent two minutes later, and it’s only to follow lazily at Robb’s side. It’s almost easy, sometimes, to forget that the direwolf has killed as many men as the other soldiers. 

“Theon—” Robb laughs as he says it, the kind of breathy laugh that means he’s more amused than he is off put. Which is good. Theon tightens his hold on Robb’s sleeve briefly. “When I said I was done for today, I meant it as I was going to  _ sleep.  _ Where are we going?”

Theon scoffs and releases Robb’s clothing. Robb’s walking with him willingly enough, and he doesn’t need to risk someone seeing and thinking they’re holding hands. “You wouldn’t have gone to sleep,” he counters. “You would have laid in bed and tossed and turned for half the night.”

Robb huffs indignantly but doesn’t deny it. They both know that Robb could have a solid plan and half a dozen backup plans and would  _ still _ fret and worry. “You still haven’t said where we’re going,” Robb supplies instead.

“It’s a surprise.”

Theon says it innocently enough, but Robb shoots him a distrustful look. “A surprise in the middle of the night?”

Oh, no, they couldn’t have that. Theon knows perfectly well that their  _ fun _ is resigned to be few and far between. There are too many people too often to risk it. Not to mention that, on the nights Robb didn’t fall asleep as soon as he hit the bed, he often couldn’t remove enough weight of the crown to distract himself.

The Greyjoy waves his hand dismissively. “It is  _ not _ the middle of the night, or my name isn’t Greyjoy. Trust me, Robb,” he says. “When have I ever led you astray?”

That gets a smile, the ones that make Theon’s heart flutter. Those smiles are rare, these days, and reserved for Theon alone. They look so gentle upon Robb’s face, and fond.

“I can think of quite a few times,” Robb teases in return, but he doesn’t protest and doesn’t question where they’re going.

Theon leads him through the camp. Thousands of tents are propped up, but most are not sleeping yet, instead playing games, practicing sword fighting, or sneaking a few mugs of ale. The sun has been set for a short while now, and Theon’s sure that most will retire soon, but there is enough light to see without a torch.

_ Middle of the night,  _ he thinks to himself with a scoff.  _ Robb truly has been in that tent for too long, stupid boy. _

But Robb  _ does _ need as much sleep as he can get, and if Theon keeps him out too late, he’ll be falling asleep on his feet anyway. So Theon decides to take a shortcut to the closest edge of the camp.

At the very outskirts, where the last of the tents dwindle, someone has scrounged up enough hay, grass, and twigs to create makeshift archery targets. There are only four, but they are riddled with arrows. Theon eyes the marksmanship as they pass. Not as good as  _ him, _ surely, but still good.

At least three authors of the targets’ fate are still out. They look young, as so many of Robb’s army do, and one has an arrow nocked and is aligning to shoot. The other two stand behind with their bows and quivers, watching and conversing quietly.

The arrow looses and flies, sinking into the hay in a spot that Theon thinks could have been the neck of a man. 

Upon seeing them—or, more specifically, their king—the archers lower their bows and their heads respectfully. “Your Grace,” they say.

Theon doesn’t have to see Robb to know he’s become King Robb once again. He keeps himself from frowning in displeasure, at how easy it is to undo all the work he’s done. “Good evening,” Robb replies amicably, with a small wave. “I don’t mean to disturb you. We’re just passing through.”

The archers have righted themselves and kept their bows lowered. “By all means,” says one, motioning for them to continue, “we shan’t shoot until you’ve cleared.”

“I should  _ hope _ not,” Theon grumbles, and Robb sneakily elbows him in the ribs.

“Thank you,” Robb says, beginning to walk again. “Come along, Theon.”

Naturally Theon follows. It takes only a few seconds to pass the small space the archers have cleared out for their practice, and from there they’ve got to ascend a small hill before they’re close to their destination.

But they’ve barely passed the archers when a growl stops Theon cold. 

“Grey Wind?” Robb asks. When Theon turns, he sees Robb already looking between Grey Wind and the archers. One of them, apparently, has earned the direwolf’s ire. Theon  _ would _ feel bad for the poor bloke, but if Grey Wind judges and finds wanting, Theon’s distrust and suspicion rules over any sympathy he might have had.

All the archers glance nervously at each other, shuffling a little further away.

“Grey Wind,” Robb tries again, “come along.”

The direwolf pays Robb no mind and stalks closer. His teeth are bared, and his growling could be thunder, for how quiet it’s gotten. The archers look like they’d rather be swallowed up by the earth than stare down their king’s direwolf. Theon can’t blame them for that, at least. If they haven’t seen Grey Wind tear out men’s throats, they’ve certainly heard the stories.

Theon  _ has _ seen Grey Wind take down men grown and he’s heard the stories. The stories, as terrifying as they are, aren’t nearly as terrifying as the real thing.

“Grey—” Robb starts again, taking a step forward to fetch his direwolf himself.

“Wait.” Theon’s hand catches Robb’s arm, and Robb glares at him. The look irks him.  _ Trust me. When have I ever led you astray?  _ But Theon dismisses his grievance in favor of cooling Robb’s temper.

“You should know to trust that wolf, Your Grace,” Theon hisses, as Grey Wind stalks ever closer to the archers. “If he mistrusts them, you should as well.”

The words affect Robb as much as an arrow would to a castle wall. Robb shakes his arm loose, looking annoyed. “It will do no good for my men to think they can’t trust Grey Wind,” he says. “They fear battle enough as it is. I won’t have them thinking that there’s even a  _ chance _ for Grey Wind to turn on them when they need to have trust in him.”

_ Trust in me  _ is what Theon hears. He watches, displeased, as Robb leaves his side to fetch his wolf.

In the short time they’ve conversed, Grey Wind has gotten ever closer to the archers. His muscles are coiled, and he’s tight to the floor, eyes pinned on one man in particular. He seems about to pounce when Robb’s kingly voice cuts through the air like a knife.

_ “Grey Wind.” _

The direwolf finally gives pause, but his eyes don’t leave the archer.

Robb’s reached Grey Wind’s side. “Enough of that,” he says, and Grey Wind’s ears flatten, but he obeys—albeit reluctantly. “I apologize for him,” Robb says now to the archers, except it takes a moment longer for Robb to look from Grey Wind to them.

Specifically to the one Grey Wind was about to maul.

“What is your name, Ser?”

Theon can’t help but think that perhaps castles should start fearing arrows.

The archer flusters, caught between terrified and ashamed for feeling so. “Roland, Your Grace,” he answers. 

Robb, and Grey Wind for that matter, have yet to move, and yet to take their eyes from Roland. “You have no surname?” Robb asks.

“No, Your Grace.” Roland shakes his head. “I’m a mere farmer’s boy. I apologize. Animals have never taken kindly to me.”

Theon could point out the discrepancy himself, but there’s no need. Robb, as kind and trusting as he is, is still no fool. “A farmer who’s hated by his animals,” the King muses. Theon cannot see Robb’s face clearly from this angle, but he can imagine the way Robb’s eyes narrow clear enough.

“Y-yes— Yes, Your Grace.” Beads of sweat have broken across Roland’s brow. “It is why I thought myself to be a better fit among your army, Your Grace.”

For a dozen heartbeats, silence reigns, long and drawn and tense—much like a bow about to loose an arrow. The air is thick. Theon knows it, as do Grey Wind and Roland:

Robb Stark, King in the North, is passing his judgement.

And though Robb chooses to lower the figurative bow, the arrow does not return to its quiver.

But the answer must have satisfied him, to an extent, because he relents nonetheless. He takes a step back, half-turning to return to Theon. “Very well,” Robb says dismissively. “I apologize again for disturbing you. Come, Grey Wind.”

Grey Wind hesitates but turns to follow Robb all the same. They reach Theon’s side together, and while Robb’s lordly face is starting to fade, Theon will have to work thrice as hard to remove it entirely.

“You apologized for disturbing them,” Theon snickers as he leads them up the small hill, “not for frightening them.”

A small smile twitches at the corner of Robb’s lips but fails to break through. “You were right,” Robb says wearily, as if the past two minutes have drained him completely. “I do need to trust Grey Wind’s judgement more.”

Theon risks a glance behind them. The archers and the camp’s torches are small in the distance. “If you trusted his judgement completely, I think you would be down an archer.”

“And how would I explain that?” Robb lets out a sigh. “I stand by what I said. It won’t do to let Grey Wind terrorize my men, let alone  _ kill _ one when I have not one shred of evidence. But, all the same… I shouldn’t have been so harsh with you. I’m sorry.”

The apology is unexpected, and therefore appreciated all the more, but it isn’t what Theon wants. He’s still speaking to Robb the lord when he just wants  _ Robb.  _

“If you think that was harshness, then I am glad that, of the two of us, I am the one meant to have iron for blood.” Theon, now far enough away from the camp, sets his hands on Robb’s shoulders and steers him.

Robb allows it, not that Theon is surprised. “Still, Theon, I mean it, I shouldn’t have—” He still tries to protest. That won’t do.

“There are many things we all shouldn’t do,” Theon cuts him off with what he hopes is enough of a dismissive tone. “I shouldn’t have pissed on Lord Bolton’s tent, but I did so all the same. What’s done is done. Come now, put your crown away.”

Theon’s confession draws a surprised laugh from Robb, who turns to him with wide, incredulous eyes.  _ They are so blue, _ Theon thinks,  _ bluer than the seas. _

In that moment, Theon’s certain that every Ironborn would bend the knee to Robb if they could see him, for the Drowned God’s halls must be in his eyes. The thought might be blasphemy, but Theon can’t bring himself to care. Robb’s eyes consume him more devastatingly than any storm on the sea could to a ship.

“You did  _ what?”  _ Robb gasps, breathless from laughter. 

Theon blinks, returns to himself, and plasters on a grin that he knows makes Jon Snow want to punch him and makes Robb feel like the weight of the world isn’t on his shoulders. “I was drunk,” he defends himself. “At the time it seemed a great idea.”

“I trust you didn’t get  _ caught.” _

Theon gapes, affronted.  _ “Robb,” _ he gasps dramatically, “do you think so low of me? To be caught by a man who’s let leeches suck enough blood from him that he can no longer get it up for a two-copper whore?”

Robb is well and truly laughing now. The sound is rich and dark, pouring over Theon like honey and smoke. He’s more intoxicated by that sound than he has been by any ale, and when Robb pushes him away, Theon is too drunk on him to protest. But there was no need, for Robb returns just as tightly to his side as he had been.

It ruins the cocky image he’s spent so long crafting, but Theon is smiling, too. He could do nothing else, with Robb well and truly  _ grinning, _ now, and because of  _ him, _ no less.

“If you find yourself in that situation again,” Robb says in an even voice, and Theon thinks,  _ oh no, has this just become a lecture?— _ “I do hope you’ll aim closer to his pillow.”

And  _ that _ catches Theon so off guard that his brain is slow on the uptake for a heartbeat. Then, all of a sudden, he and Robb both are laughing like children again, filling the empty air with sounds of their happiness. Theon’s laughing so fiercely that he’s doubled over, holding himself up by his own thighs. Robb always holds his stomach and throws his head back when he really laughs, but Theon’s eyes are too blurred with tears to see.

It’s the most blissful high, to be laughing with Robb, so far away from everything that steals their summer souls away and locks them up tight. Here, with nothing but the night air, they are free to be children again—or at least, free to pretend to be.

Robb has gotten ever closer to him in their fit, and the Stark leans one arm and half of his body weight onto Theon’s back so suddenly that Theon can’t even try to hold them both up. His hands slip from his thighs and he and Robb both fall to the ground in a shout of surprise and a tangled mess of limbs. Instantly, their laughter roars to life again.

Theon wheezes and rolls from his stomach to his back. Or he  _ would,  _ except Robb is in the way somewhere, so he really ends up laying halfway on Robb’s chest and on the grass. Like this, he can feel the way Robb’s chest expands and trembles as his laughs escape unevenly.

The shadow of Grey Wind looms over the two of them, though he’s closer to Theon than to Robb. Apparently, this is unacceptable to the direwolf. Grey Wind tries to step carefully between them, Theon thinks, but paws end up crushing his belly and his thigh as Grey Wind leans over to lick at Robb’s face.

“Grey Wind,” they both groan in unison. Above him, Robb is batting his direwolf’s muzzle away. Meanwhile, Theon is having very little success trying to shove off the wolf standing on top of him. Grey Wind certainly weighs as much as either of them, and he’s just as stubborn, but it seems he gets the hint and retreats anyways.

He doesn’t go far, plopping down on the grass beside Theon. His head remains up for only a few heartbeats, before he seemingly decides everything is safe, and rests on Theon’s hip.

Robb has finally started to regain control of himself, although his words are still caught with fading, breathy laughs. “Oh, gods,” he sighs, “that…”

Theon smirks—well, no, it’s a smile, he’s still too loose and drunk on Robb’s joy to smirk quite yet—and sets a hand on Grey Wind to pet him behind the ears. “Was greatly needed,” Theon supplies.

Robb’s chuckle is closer now than it had been a moment ago, and half a second later he feels Robb’s face press into his hair. Theon can’t help but to sink back into it. “It was,” Robb agrees. “Is this what you stole me away for?”

Theon twists slightly, and Robb pulls his head back so that they can well and truly look at each other. “A better question,” Theon says, “is ‘did it work?’”

Robb smiles at him, that same smile that gets Theon’s heart pounding heavier than any war drum. “It did.” Robb kisses him then, slow and soft and sweet, and Theon thinks he could lose everything he’s ever had and still be happy if only he had Robb.

As tempting as it is to do away with chastity while they’re alone, Theon knows better. The sky is dark, now, and even if Robb isn’t yawning yet, he will be soon. They won’t have much time before Theon has to put his little lordling to bed.

But he doesn’t mind, not truly. It’s true that he boasts of the women he’s lain with, even if he’s lain with none other than Robb for quite some time now, but despite his reputation, Theon isn’t entirely sex-driven. It’s the  _ touch _ that he wants, that he longs for, and with Robb it’s amplified tenfold. The war and their need for discretion has driven a wedge between them as grand as the Narrow Sea.

So he cherishes this time with Robb. He’ll never say it aloud—he still has his pride—but it’s true, and he thinks Robb knows it all the same.

Theon and Robb lay together there, on the grass and far from camp, and pick out the stars that have never made it to the Northern sky. They kiss just as often, and Robb holds Theon as if it’s their last night together. Once, Theon finds a stick lying nearby and tosses it. Grey Wind does not fetch it, and Theon calls him a bore for it. If Grey Wind could look annoyed, Theon is sure he would be, but it gets Robb laughing again, which makes it all worth it.

Robb  _ does _ start yawning when the moon is barely a third into the sky. He tries to hide it, but Robb’s never been very good at hiding anything from Theon. They both know it’s time to return.

“I would like to stay out here all night, if it means I can stay with you,” Robb tells him as he’s dragging Robb to his feet.

Theon feels the same, but what he says is, “I don’t think I’d like to be the cause of your army panicking when they realize their king is missing.”

Robb chuckles, lets Theon pull him to his feet, and swiftly kisses him once more. His thumb gently holds Theon’s chin, keeping him in place, drawing him nearer, even though Theon would have never pulled away.

“Their king would like to have a little more time with his lover,” Robb murmurs against his mouth.

Theon replies, just as quietly, “And you will have all the time to, once we’ve won this war.”

Robb sighs and kisses him once more for good measure. Grey Wind stands, too, stretching out his long legs and shaking twigs from his fur. 

“Come along now, little lordling.” Theon takes Robb’s hand, leading him back to the crest of the hill. “Mayhaps, if you’re good, I’ll tell you a bedtime story.”

Even in the dark, he can see Robb’s smile. “As long as it isn’t one of Old Nan’s,” Robb muses, “for I think I’ve heard them enough times to recite them in my sleep.”

“My stories are  _ far _ better than Old Nan’s.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, I figure.”

“I suppose you will be.”

Theon releases Robb’s hand as they begin descending the hill, when the camp comes back into sight. Few torches are still lit, but it’s enough to see by. Only as they draw near the archer’s clearing from earlier does Theon see one sole figure still there, and it’s a moment later that he hears the familiar rush of an arrow slicing wind before cushioning in the hay.

“Still practicing?” Robb questions, drawing nearer. Theon would catch his hand to keep him from going too close, as it’s the most basic rules in the courtyard to stay a safe distance from practicing archers, but he reacts too slowly.

“Is that you, Your Grace? Pardon me, it’s hard to see so far away.”

_ Roland. _ Theon recognizes the voice instantly, as the one archer Grey Wind snarled at. His guard is up instantly. Roland may have been speaking the truth earlier, but he’s still suspicious. So is Grey Wind, if the way he abandons Theon’s side for Robb’s says anything.

“Yes, it’s me,” Robb answers, walking closer still. Unease prickles in Theon’s gut, and he starts walking, as to catch up with Robb. “If you could pause your shooting for a moment, I need to pass through once more.”

“Oh, certainly, Your Grace.”

Theon can’t  _ see _ what Roland is doing with the distance between them. He can barely make out the shades of Robb’s cloak. But he assumes Roland lowers the bow, since Robb is still walking towards him.

Robb is standing now by the hay targets, apparently to admire them. Theon can only tell because a few darker outlines have morphed into view. “This is quite some marksmanship,” Robb’s saying. “More holes in here than I’d expect. Have you done this all yourself?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Roland replies. “It’s a new technique I’ve been working on.”

Of course Robb chooses  _ now _ to make smalltalk. Theon knows he likes to have good relationships with his men—it’s what makes him such a good king—but for gods’ sakes, it  _ is _ quite late, and it’s with Roland of all of them?

“A new technique?” Genuine curiosity is in Robb’s question. “I’ll hear it.”

Closer now, Theon can more accurately make out Roland. Not much of him, but the shadowed blur has given way to a figure with a head, torso, and two legs and arms.

Roland replies, “Two arrows fired at a time, Your Grace. It’s taken me some time, but I think I’ve learned it quite well, and with some accuracy.”

_ Impossible,  _ Theon thinks. 

Even Robb sounds taken aback. Though, it’s no surprise that  _ Robb _ is surprised; the boy wields a bow as well as a kitten its claws. “My… You’ll have to show me, then, once the sun returns. I’d quite like to see it for myself.”

“If it pleases Your Grace, I’d be most happy to.”

Finally, Theon reaches Robb’s side. Roland is a little clearer now, with distinct dark shadows where his eyes should be, and lighter colors where his cheeks lie. The shadowy nubs of his hands have grown five shadows themselves, clasped around a bow.

“Ah, there you are.” Robb smiles softly at Theon when he sees him, before returning his attention to Roland. “Again, I apologize for disturbing you. We’ll be on our way. But mayhaps you should get some rest yourself.”

Roland nods politely. “It’s no disturbance, Your Grace. And I will shortly, thank you.”

Satisfied, Robb leads Theon across the small clearing. Theon will be all the more grateful once they’ve crossed it, and even more so once he’s seen Robb to his tent. Something has had hairs sticking up on the back of his neck, and his fingers are restless, the way they always become before a battle, before he’s drawn his sword or his bow.

Just as they cross the clearing, Roland calls out to them again.

“Oh, Your Grace?”

Theon hopes that, if he keeps walking, Robb will follow. But it fails. Robb stops instantly; Theon’s only succeeded in putting more paces between them, though Grey Wind has remained ever faithfully by Robb’s side. 

“Yes?” Robb asks. A growl rumbles low in the direwolf’s throat, and Robb runs his fingers through Grey Wind’s fur soothingly.

_ What does this bumbling idiot want with us now,  _ Theon thinks irritably, turning himself as well to look, while Roland speaks.

Theon’s eyes are squinting into the inky blackness when Roland’s figure falls in his line of sight once more. It’s hard to see in the distance, but he stands not as one should when at ease. Instead, Theon cannot see his arms at his sides, and the shadow that should be his torso and head seem longer, somehow.

“Of that technique I spoke of, I think I should like to show you now.”

Grey Wind’s growling turns into vicious snarling, and in a heartbeat, the direwolf is gone from Robb’s side, turning into a blur of grey across the distance as he was named for.

But that is not Theon’s concern, as in the same heartbeat, the air hisses around them, and comes the dull thuds of arrows sinking into flesh.

Robb takes a step back in surprise.

His and Theon’s eyes fall at the same time to the arrows embedded in Robb’s leg and shoulder. Blood is staining Robb’s clothing as black as the night.

The world seems to screech to a halt. The only sound Theon can hear is his heart hammering as loudly as ocean waves in his ears.

A third arrow plunges into Robb’s chest, and this time Robb crumbles with it, like a doll cut from its strings. A fourth whizzes over where Robb’s neck had been not half a second before.

The world unfreezes and rockets forward with a vengeance.

The screaming starts, then.

It can’t have taken Grey Wind more than a few seconds to cross the small distance. Less than that, even, for how fast the direwolf runs. How could Robb get shot full of arrows in only three or four beats of his heart?

Theon, feeling like he was underwater, scrambles to Robb.  _ This can’t be real,  _ he thinks dumbly.  _ This can’t be happening.  _ But Robb’s blood is hot and wet underneath his hands, and he can hear Grey Wind’s roaring and Roland’s shrieking only some yards away.

_ “Maester!” _ Theon screams, as loud as his lungs can manage. He starts snapping off the ends of the arrows with a vengeance, his hands working quickly to save Robb’s life.  _ Oh, god, Robb’s life.  _ “Maester! I need a  _ fucking maester!” _

Distantly, Theon recognizes that he’s the only one screaming, now.

He presses his hands tight around the wound by Robb’s chest and screams ever louder for a maester, even while he thinks,  _ Please, not his heart. Please let it have missed his heart. _

The world, then, becomes like a flickering flame. Time is unsteady, events clipping between one another in such a way that Theon cannot tell how much time has passed, if any.

Someone is by his side faster than Theon thought possible, and suddenly he is aware of  _ many _ people around him, crouched protectively over his king. Hands grab his shoulders and pull him away, and now there are torches lit, illuminating it all, and he sees men pick Robb up from the ground like they do with corpses after a battle.

And Robb’s lifeblood has drenched the grass the deepest crimson Theon has ever seen.

_ “Save him,”  _ Theon begs, though he doesn’t know who he’s speaking to.  _ “Save him, _ please.”

Someone guides Theon to sit. He’s not sure who, because no one is in front of him now, even though there are dozens of people swarming in front of his eyes. For a moment, Theon almost thinks it’s daytime, but then his eyes refocus and he realizes it’s because every torch has been lit. The entire camp must be awake by now.

Roland’s dying screams probably roused them long before Theon’s cries did.

A gray blur passes slowly through Theon’s gaze. It takes him a beat to recognize that it’s Grey Wind. The direwolf’s mouth is dripping blood.

Grey Wind pauses in front of Theon and stares at him with yellow eyes. Then, the wolf continues onward.

Somehow, it makes Theon return to himself enough to push himself to his feet and follow.

He’s not surprised when they reach Robb’s tent.

_ That damned tent. _

Grey Wind pushes past the flaps without hesitation. Theon does the same, feeling pulled by something he cannot quite control. But as soon as he enters, his feet freeze him to the spot.

Theon can hardly see Robb through the maesters and the nurses, but he can still see the blood. It’s staining the table that Robb uses to slouch over his maps until his candles have all melted.

Suddenly, Catelyn Stark is standing in front of him, and Theon feels cowed for one of the few times of his life. She’s no direwolf, not truly, but looking into her eyes as blue as Robb’s, Theon thinks she can pass for one. And one of her pups is lying feet away, dying.

_ Dying. _

“Theon,” Catelyn demands. She sounds furious and relieved in the same breath.  _ “What _ has happened to  _ my son?” _

Theon’s tongue works better than he anticipated it would. “There was a traitor in our midst,” he says. He motions to Grey Wind, who’s taken to lying underneath the table Robb is lying on. The blood on his snout and his paws is mingling with Robb’s. “I’m not sure if you’ll find even pieces of him left, my lady.”

Catelyn’s eyes are piercing, searching his own for any hint of a lie, while her hands wring a handkerchief. She has never liked him much. Never enough to cause him grievance, but she has always been distant and cautious around him and warned Robb to do the same, not that Robb has ever listened to her.

_ Maybe if he had, he wouldn’t have let you drag him from his tent. Maybe he would be safe now. _

Before Catelyn can speak, Theon bows his head lowly, in a way that he has never done when he hasn’t needed to. “I’m sorry,” he blurts. “It’s my fault. I insisted he come with me for a walk. I thought the fresh air would do him good, and I failed to protect him. I—”

A slender hand touches his shoulder. Theon stiffens and looks up.

The hard, Northern mask that Catelyn wears has slipped from her face. Looking at her now, he only sees a widow, and a mother.

“I believe you,” she tells him, for the first time in his life. “Stand, please.”

He listens. She takes his hands, and he’s only now recalling that they are soaked in her son’s lifeblood. But though she’s looking at his hands, he can’t bring himself to look away from her eyes. They’re so much like Robb’s. He finds himself trying to burn what they look like into his memory when she meets his gaze once more.

“Go and wash,” she commands, but it’s gentle. “I will stay here with Robb. I expect you to return posthaste.”

Theon nods, says, “Yes, my lady,” and steps out of the tent.

He follows her order on instinct alone. It can’t have been ten minutes later that he’s returned, but the nurses are gone from the tent when he gets there, and Robb is not on the table but tucked into his bed. Only one maester remains, and he’s speaking with Catelyn in a hushed tone.

Theon pauses halfway inside, wondering if he should return later, but Catelyn spots him and motions him to her side. He obeys.

The maester glances at Theon before resuming. “Like I said, it’s not impossible, but it will be quite impressive.”

Theon desperately hopes the maester isn’t referring to what he thinks he is.

“I will remain in the tent beside this one, should I be needed.”

Catelyn looks thirty years older than she is when she nods. “Thank you, maester. You’re dismissed.”

As soon as the maester leaves the tent, Catelyn crosses to Robb’s bedside. Theon comes to stand beside her. One of her hands is clenched around the bedsheets, and the other is shaking, running gently through Robb’s auburn curls.

Theon is relieved to see that Robb is sleeping and not dead, but it’s the smallest and most short lived of reliefs.

Catelyn sits in a chair that’s been pulled to Robb’s beside. “Sit,” she tells Theon, and he draws a chair by the foot of Robb’s bed to do the same. She takes in a deep, shuddering breath and never looks away from Robb when she says, “The maester has done everything there is to be done. If he lives through the night, there is hope for him yet.”

“If?” Theon chokes.

Catelyn does look at him now. Her eyes are filled with grief. “If,” she agrees.

**…**

Theon doesn’t know how long they sit there together in silence. The words, actions, and consequences weigh heavily on both the minds of mother and lover. Theon, somehow, is feeling everything and nothing at once. 

Catelyn, meanwhile, looks exhausted beyond words.

Somewhere along the line, she leaves. It’s reluctantly, and after being prompted by Theon. He told her he wouldn’t be getting any sleep tonight, anyway, so she might as well go rest while he watches over Robb. Ordinarily, it would have been out of line for him to suggest.

But he suggests, and she listens, and he’s alone with Robb.

And alone with his thoughts.

He can’t allow himself to think too much. It’s a dangerous game he’s playing, trying to keep himself from slipping into the canyon. He knows it’s there, just waiting to swallow him whole. All this  _ emotion _ is lurking beneath the surface and he’s treading on thin ice. 

It’s useless to fight for long. Theon knows this. The shock is wearing off the longer he sits and stares at Robb’s pale face, and the shock is the only thing that promises to keep the ice from breaking.

Luckily, he knows a trick to keep his head above water.

So when Theon’s hands start to shake, and when his chest hurts so badly that it seems like it would be easier to tear out his own heart, when he wants to do nothing more then fall into Robb’s arms and weep—

What he does instead is hate.

And so he sits, and he doesn’t think, and he hates. There’s quite a lot to hate. He has his pick. He could hate the archer, Roland. It’s easy to hate him, and Theon almost wishes that he was still alive so Grey Wind could tear him to ribbons again. It would be just as easy to hate himself, for stealing Robb from his tent, for ignoring his instincts, ignoring  _ Grey Wind’s _ instincts, for not reacting fast enough.

But Theon has plenty of hate to spare, and he finds it spreads as quickly as blood.

He hates that they are here in the South at all. He hates Eddard Stark for going south and getting killed and landing them all in this mess. He hates the late King Baratheon for summoning Eddard south and hates the current King Baratheon for cutting off Eddard’s head. 

It almost surprises him that he wants to hate Robb. Once he recognizes the idea, he can’t quite shake it. He  _ wants _ to hate Robb for so many things—for giving Roland the benefit of the doubt, for getting shot full of arrows, for being crowned King in the North; for calling the banners, for being the honorable first born. Hell, even for befriending him when they were children.

Theon wants to hate Robb most for dying, but he can’t. His heart cannot bear the idea of spending the last of Robb’s breaths hating him, and he could never hate Robb more than he loves him, anyway. 

But his anger needs a focal point, a forest to feed the fires of his rage, or else it will sputter out into embers and leave him to drown everything else he is trying to avoid. So he withdraws his rage, reels it back from the distant past and further still from the dying man on the bed. He finds a subject worthy of his fury, and Theon releases it all with the wrath of ten thousand seas. 

They were supposed to be  _ safe. _


End file.
